It started with a memory I didn’t expect to find.

I had been cleaning out my mother’s kitchen, something I had put off for nearly six months after she passed. I didn’t want to open drawers that still smelled like her perfume, or wipe down countertops that had once been covered in her Sunday soup prep.

But something pulled me into her pantry that day. And right there, tucked behind a jar of barley and a faded tin of red pepper flakes, was a worn little notebook. Taped to the cover, in her handwriting, were the words: “Healing Tea – Morning & Night.”

Inside were ingredients I knew but never imagined could live together in a cup:
Garlic, turmeric, onion, ginger, cinnamon, guava leaf.

My first reaction? Confusion. Followed by a sudden wave of warmth I hadn’t felt in months. I remembered being a child with a sore throat, sitting on her lap, nose stuffy, eyes heavy. She’d press a warm mug into my hands and whisper, “Drink slowly. This tea is from my mother. It’ll clean you from the inside.”

I never asked what was in it. I only knew it made me feel better. Not just in my body, but in my heart. It felt like being protected. Held.

That night, I made it for the first time in decades.

I peeled one clove of garlic, sliced a piece of onion the size of my thumb, grated some ginger and turmeric, dropped in a cinnamon stick, and added a few guava leaves I found in the bag labeled “for stomach.” I wasn’t sure if they were too old, but I used them anyway.

I let it simmer gently for about ten minutes. The kitchen filled with a strange but familiar smell—sharp, earthy, and warm.

I poured it into one of her old ceramic mugs, the one with the cracked handle she never threw away. I sat by the window and took the first sip.

It didn’t taste like the teas I was used to. It was bold. Spicy. A little sweet from the cinnamon. But it went down smooth, and I swear I could feel something shifting inside me with each sip.

That night, I slept without waking up once.

The next morning, I made it again.

I had no expectations. But what happened over the next few days surprised me. My stomach, which had been uneasy for months, started to feel calm. My energy, which always dipped after lunch, stayed steady. My mind felt clearer. I didn’t need my antacids anymore.

By the end of the first week, I wasn’t just drinking the tea—I was looking forward to it. Not out of obligation, but out of comfort. It became my pause. My peace.

I started drinking it after dinner, too. It helped me sleep. Helped me digest. Helped me slow down in a world that keeps rushing forward.

A few weeks later, my friend Hyejin came over. She noticed my skin first. “You look brighter,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “What cream are you using?”

I laughed and pointed at the mug on the table. “Not cream. Just tea.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of tea?”

When I told her the ingredients, she made a face. “That’s soup, not tea.”

“Try it,” I said, pouring her a cup.

She sniffed it, took a cautious sip, and paused. “Okay… it’s weird. But I kind of love it.”

She asked for the recipe before she left. And then she called me three days later.

“I don’t know what kind of magic that tea has,” she said. “But my acid reflux didn’t bother me at all last night. First time in months.”

That was when I realized it wasn’t just me.

Garlic, with its natural antibacterial power, was calming our digestion. Turmeric was easing our joints and inflammation. Onion, though strange in tea, was helping clear sinuses. Ginger warmed our stomachs. Cinnamon helped balance blood sugar. And guava leaf? That one was a gift—supporting digestion and even helping with hormonal balance.

Soon, it wasn’t just Hyejin. My cousin Soojin tried it. Then my neighbor. Then my daughter, who came home from university with stress acne and a bloated belly.

Each of them said the same thing. “I didn’t expect much… but I feel better.”

It became a small movement. We started calling it The Strong Tea. It didn’t just help with sickness—it reminded us we had tools. That we didn’t always need pills or perfect diets. Sometimes, healing could come from a pot on the stove and ten quiet minutes.

One Sunday afternoon, we gathered in my kitchen. Five women. All different ages. All holding mugs of the tea that had somehow brought us together.

We didn’t just talk about digestion or inflammation. We talked about things we’d been holding in. Grief. Guilt. Fatigue. Loneliness.

Soojin said, “This tea doesn’t just help my stomach. It slows down my brain.”

Hyejin nodded. “It makes me feel like I’m not fighting my body anymore.”

I shared the notebook with them. My mother’s handwriting. Her notes on when to drink it, how to steep it slower when you feel anxious, how to add honey for a sore throat or lemon for extra cleansing.

We cried that day. Over tea. Over memories. Over the quiet truth that we often forget—we already have so much of what we need.

Now, this is how I make it:

– 1 garlic clove, peeled and gently crushed
– 1 tbsp chopped onion
– 1/2 tsp grated fresh ginger
– 1/2 tsp grated fresh turmeric (or 1/4 tsp dried)
– 1 small cinnamon stick (or 1/4 tsp ground)
– 3–4 guava leaves (dried or fresh)

Boil in 2.5 cups of water for 10 minutes. Strain. Sip slowly. Add honey or lemon if desired.

I drink it in the morning before breakfast, to warm and wake my body. And again after dinner, to ease the digestion and invite a calm sleep.

Some people might wrinkle their noses at garlic and onion in tea. But once you try it—and once you feel what it does—you won’t care.

Because this tea has become more than a remedy. It’s a ritual. A reconnection. A way to honor the women who came before me, and to take care of the woman I am now.

Sometimes I imagine my mother watching me from the kitchen door. Smiling at how her little recipe is still giving strength.

And sometimes, when I sip slowly in the dark and the house is finally quiet, I whisper, “Thank you.”

So if you’re feeling tired. Bloated. Foggy. Heavy in ways you can’t explain—try this.

Not just because it works. But because it reminds you of something we forget in all the noise:

Healing doesn’t have to be complicated.
It just has to be kind.

If this story warmed your heart or gave you hope, please like it.
And share it with someone who needs a cup of comfort today.
Because sometimes, the best medicine is already in our kitchen 💛